To Stretch, To Tangle, Never To Break
by liliumweiss
Summary: But Mrs. Mills, I don't have a thread. It all starts with those simple words. The moment the last syllable leaves Emma Nolan's lips, her life changes, and if you think for the better, then you probably live in a world where soulmates are either rare or don't exist.


**So, a few weeks ago, given the lack of work in the office, I watched the video carpedzem posted, of which she "wanted" a fic. After, I pitched her the whole idea, still true to the video, but enough to be Captain Swan. Visit her tumblr to have a look at the wonderful fanarts she created based on the red thread of fate's myth.**

**This weekend - plus two days - completely under Natalia's careful watch - and man, you know I love your reactions, the heart one is lit! - this 6.3k words monster (aye, snidgetsafan I totally jinxed myself) was born.**

**The title comes out of profdanglaisstuff 's brilliant mind! My Savior **

**To Stretch, To Tangle, Never To Break**

_The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break_ ― Unknown

«But Mrs. Mills, I don't have a thread.»

It all starts with those simple words.

The moment the last syllable leaves Emma Nolan's lips, her life changes, and if you think for the better, then you probably live in a world where soulmates are either rare or don't exist.

In Emma Nolan's world, however, soulmates are very common: every person has a bright red thread tied to their fingers which can't ever undo or cut. It doesn't interfere with your daily life, but it's there nonetheless, reminding you that there's someone you're bound to. Which is what the thread actually is: a reminder, as much as a bond; the decision to either follow it or wait for the right person to show up is up to you and you alone. Ah, well, _sometimes_ the Fates just want to have fun, but that really is a rare occasion.

The thread is only visible to the people bound by it - either two or more - and, on occasions, by other people gifted with the Sight, descendants of witches who now have learned not to tell the world about their abilities if they don't want an endless line of people waiting for them out of their houses. They also learned to cast a memory spell over those whom they help in case their heart suddenly goes too soft and can't just stand there and do nothing. These are very rare occasions, but they do pay a visit to those who claim they can see the thread and swindle poor human beings in search for their soulmate.

People without a thread are called Anomalies. Capital A. At least they aren't marked with an A. Not anymore, that is. Witches have been helpful that way, wiping away the marks and more memories. That's how many people decided not to mention anything about their threads, either avoiding the matter entirely - exhausting, really - or lying - still exhausting, yet the best way to avoid strange looks and brands.

How can you teach a child to stay silent when you can't see their thread and they never mentioned it? You can, no matter how fairytale-like your love story is.

Mary Margaret and David Nolan always told Emma the story of how they met, of how they waited for their soulmate to show up and ran into each other, not realizing they were soulmates until after Mary Margaret punched him in the face and stole his mother's engagement ring, wearing right above the thread's knot. She was stunned when David showed up at her door, breathless, holding up the thread.

When Cora Mills, Emma's teacher, calls them for a meeting and reveals what Emma said, all they feel is dread.

There is something else scientists have discovered in time: if a person doesn't have a thread, it usually means they will die before finding their soulmates.

(It's also true that sometimes Fates do screw up and accidents happen and threads are cut or woven with someone else's. This last option is clearly difficult to put in action given many already are matched, but they always manage to restore the balance. Somehow.)

Still, Emma Nolan doesn't have a thread, and as sad as it is, her words escape the Fates' attention when they don't everyone else's.

Her teacher isn't surprised, just sad: Cora Mills is a powerful witch, in fact, and she's always known about Emma's secret, never having enough courage to face her. How can you tell a child they're doomed to die before experiencing True Love?

Yet Emma Nolan isn't desperate, no, her parents are. Emma is just done with everyone.

Her parents mistake her not wanting to go to school with uneasiness about not having a thread, her silence for shame, but Emma is just pissed. She doesn't want to be coddled, and what she wants the most is not for the thread to magically tie itself around her finger: all she wants is for her schoolmates to stop making fun of her.

Being kids, they don't, they don't understand, and some, even when their parents tell them what not having a thread usually means, joke about it. They joke about the fact that she'll die without love, and that's too much for Emma.

Nobody befriends her, almost fearing she will make their threads disappear, a voice Mrs. Mills' daughter, Regina, spreads, and if Regina Mills says something, it's law.

Emma might not be physically branded with an A, but it's a close thing.

She tells herself it doesn't matter, that she doesn't need to experience True Love when she has her parents, that it'll be enough.

Except, it isn't.

The sense of inadequacy, of not being enough, can only get stronger when her baby brother is born. Emma can't see it, but he has the thread. Even so, he's perfect, and how can she compete with him with her non-existent thread?

Since her mother manifested the desire to have another child - strategically after she revealed the lack of a soulmate - Emma thought of her little brother as a replacement, someone they could hold on to after she's gone. It hurts, and creates an abyss between her and her parents. Parent, singular, she should say: David Nolan treats her the same as before, and sometimes it seems he favours her a little bit. She should feel bad about it, yet she relishes in being a daddy's girl.

She also should feel bad for almost guilt-tripping them into buy her art supplies she can use to express her feelings. She doesn't feel bad when she lets her father understand she would like to try digital art, which requires expensive tools, but she does cry of joy when she finds her first tablet under the Christmas tree.

Her art is grim, dark, echo of her feelings, but sometimes she draws fanarts: Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, The Princess Bride… she _loves_ it, it makes her feel better and lets her forget she's an Anomaly.

It takes her long to decide, until one day Emma decides to post a drawing of Westley and Buttercup on tumblr.

It's not a huge success, but she gets notes and followers and it's, strangely enough, more than she would get from her parents when her she showed them her drawings.

It goes on like that for years, her tumblr - dreadpirateswan - getting more followers and reblogs and she also gets a bit of anon hate, but that's normal, too. She gets messages from people who congratulate with her for her style, asking for advices and if she takes commissions - why not? She could use the money, and it's not like she's using other people's works for a profit.

Many are the messages she receives, but no one ever writes her for long, no one ever seems to find an interest in her, only her heart.

So when Emma receives a new message from jollyscoundreljones, she thinks it won't last.

Everything just starts like it always does, with an "hey, I saw your art, it's amazing" or something along that line. The happy flutter in her heart never fails to appear whenever someone compliments her, yet sometimes it just feels so fake, done so people can enter her good grace and get free art out of her. Sometimes, it's just like that.

Not with Jones, though.

Jones is different, somehow, Emma can feel it.

They talk, they get all nerdy over things and Emma just loves their exchange. Their banter makes her feel different, alive, in a way, and, just like when she draws, whenever she talks to - or even thinks about - Jones, she forgets about that red string she's never seen and never will.

After being on tumblr for years - and okay, even with the help of a global clock on her phone - she decides Jones live in the US, their schedules almost the same she knows they both live on the East Coast.

She might also sound a bit stalker-y sometimes, but refrains herself from pointing out such things: subtlety is not her forte.

Jones - that's the only name she can use when talking to him (never about, _never_) - is funny, loves Star Wars and guitars to the point it could cross the line and become an obsession but she can't really judge, only chuckle about it. Jones makes her laugh a lot, even at the most inconvenient times - especially then, like when she's sitting in the same room as her parents and they look at her with an arched eyebrow or a twinkle in their eyes. The latter always makes her sober up: this is not a relationship, and it will never be one. As far as she knows, Jones already has a soulmate.

That knowledge doesn't diminish the pain she feels in her heart.

Jones helps with that, making her forget despite being the indirect cause.

It's on her seventeenth birthday, almost a whole year since she started talking with Jones, that the message she wakes up to is an audio.

Her heart beats rapidly, too fast for it to be healthy. That's a line they never crossed, never exchanging phone numbers or mails, only chatting on tumblr. It makes her anxious, but she trusts Jones with her whole heart.

After listening to the audio, she's a mess. She's crying, but not because he - because only now she knows Jones is a guy - told her something bad, like he's been messing with her for months to end. No, the fucker went and recorded a cover of Owl City's _Fireflies_, also known as her favourite song.

Emma doesn't know what to say, she just cries and sends him what is defined "keyboard smashing" because that's how she is with him. Hell, the knowledge he's a man doesn't scare her at all, she's just too happy and she just-

It's a shock, really, and she can't bring herself to put her thoughts into words, because it can't be. Ever.

Emma talks to Jones some more, and she eventually forgets about her impossible thoughts.

It can't be, and it breaks her heart.

For the first time ever, she's grateful for the fact that they can't see each other: it'd make it more difficult than it already is.

Emma's world turns upside down around Thanksgiving.

In the future, if someone asked her, she would not know what pushed her to write the words she sends Jones late at night, just after finishing a Thanksgiving-themed fanart.

_Hey, Jones… I have a confession to make._

His reply is a fast, reassuring one that makes her heart do somersaults.

_I don't have the thread_.

There. The words are now out there, and she might have lost the only true friend she's ever had.

So imagine her surprise when she sees Jones has replied. It doesn't quite match the heart attack she nearly has when she reads his response.

_Bloody hell. I… I don't have the thread, either_.

Then again, her sight is a bit blurred by tears and she might not have read it correctly.

All Emma can think as she stares at her monitor with tears streaming down her cheeks and a stupid smile curving her lips is that Jones always, always finds a way to surprise her.

God, if she could choose to ever love someone, she would choose to love _him_.

There's a burning sensation around her left ring finger, and when she looks down at her hand, her eyes widen in what could only be described as pure shock.

When the red glow fades, the colour red doesn't disappear at all, becoming as thin as a-

«Fuck. Me.»

Emma has a thread.

Emma Nolan has a thread.

Emma Nolan, former Anomaly, has a thread.

In any other occasion, she would jump with joy: she wouldn't be an outcast anymore, her parents would truly love her, yet the only person she wants to reveal that new secret to is the guy she loves.

_Jones? Something strange just happened…_

She bites her lip and then her nails as she waits for his response.

_Uh, would it be crazy if I told you something strange happened here, too?_

Her heart skips several beats. It can't be healthy, not at all, but then it speeds up and seems to lock in her throat as she types another message.

_I… don't think so? It would make sense given how I feel but… my thread just appeared._

Much like earlier, when she told him she didn't have the thread, Emma braces herself for what he might tell her.

What if it's all her illusion? What if she's just been matched to someone who isn't Jones and she'll have to live her life pretending she's not in love with A guy she met online? If only she could just follow the thread, perhaps she would have her answer. But then, if the answer doesn't please her, what happens? She still would have to forget about Jones, and how could she when she can't just be without him?

_Bloody hell_ \- ah, yes, the first hint she got about his British heritage, followed by the accent she heard in her song - _my thread just appeared, too_.

More tears run down her face and Emma is very thankful her parents are heavy sleepers and don't hear her muffled sobs.

_I love you, Jones_.

Emma can't bring herself to regret those words, how could she when she finally has found her true soulmate, and not one she's been forced to accept but one she chose herself?

She might also let out a loud squeal - no, she definitely does - when he replied the answer almost an identical twin to her own.

_I love you, too, Swan_.

-/-

Emma's happiness doesn't last for too long.

In fact, it lasts for twenty-two days, sixteen hours and a bunch of minutes she can't bring herself to count. She's never been that good at math anyway.

Jones hasn't been answering her for almost a week, and she has no idea how to contact him to ask him if he's okay.

She could… but she can't. She won't. Rationally, she knows they are soulmates and they love each other, but after being for so long without someone who truly loved her, can you really blame Emma for not wanting to be a disappointment to Jones' eyes? Again, rationally, she knows she won't be, but having been bullied for the majority of her life still leaves her a strange feeling, that feeling you have when you don't feel enough.

Jones always manages to make her feel completely different, as if she's the most important person for him. And now he's gone, and she has no other means to contact him, not a mail, not a phone number. There's just the thread, but Emma Nolan can't risk not being enough.

(There's also the fact that she can't just disappear and perhaps end up in another state when she has no money to cover the expenses and she can't just ask her parents who, undoubtedly, would help her find her soulmate. She can't tell them because her thread is still a secret, and will be for years to come.)

That's why she settles for the worst of two evils, hoping deep inside her heart that one day the thread will become much shorter and finally bring them together again.

-/-

Painful days turn into apathetic months into joyless years.

Time without Jones seems to pass slower and Emma just feels empty. Her life goes on as usual on the outside, though with a significant lack of smiles and concealed laughs her parents choose not to comment upon. The fact that they don't ask makes her feel worse and better at the same time: they don't need to know about Jones or the thread, but can't they see how unhappy she is?

Her father does try to ask, ending up with silence as his only answer. He takes her to the Met, a place she's never been to and they stay there all day long. It might seem nothing, what is a day spent with your father in a museum, after all?, but for Emma not much compares to being surrounded by art. It honestly makes her feel a bit more loved.

After that, trips to different museums with her father become a regular thing, the bond between them reinforced.

The same doesn't really go for her mother, who always seem to prefer spending time with Leo or her students. It hurts, but Emma has been used to this since that fatidic day. Sometimes, she would love to tell her mother the truth out of spite, but no: before doing that, she needs to find Jones again.

This newfound bond with her father allows Emma to finally decide on which college she wants to attend, and it comes with no surprise that she ends up choosing art school.

Painting, either digitally or traditionally, helps Emma go through her heartbreak. Although she's be supposed to swear off men and love, she just can't. Yes, Jones might have disappeared on her, but in her heart she just knows something must've happened. He's not posted on tumblr since, no more photos of guitars or music recs or nerdy stuff. She wonders, of course she does, but never manages to find an answer.

So she waits, dodging dates and guys who want only one thing from her.

If you'd asked her if she was a romantic soul before her thread appeared, Emma would've laughed at you, partly because she didn't consider her so and partly to protect herself. Had she had the thread to begin with, maybe things would've been different, _Emma_ would've been different. Perhaps she would've not given the thread too much importance and tried to find her love by conducting a normal life. Perhaps she would've waited for who knows how many years to find her soulmate, like her parents did.

But neither wanting a normal life - what is normal when you've been an Anomaly for the most part of your life? - or being a romantic soul - which she can totally be, mind you - have anything to do with the importance the thread has. No, not the thread: Jones.

It doesn't matter if she doesn't know where he is, or why he's never contacted her again: all that matters is that, somewhere, he still is alive, and still loves her.

That's what the thread means to Emma: it's not something the Fates decided, Emma and Jones did. The thread that links them was born out of their love for each other, not the other way around.

A man might not deserve to be someone's first everything out of a sense of obligation, but a woman can choose whom to experience all her firsts with, and if wanting to have them with Jones makes Emma the personification of romantic soul, then so be it.

It's her choice, _Jones_ is her choice, always has and always will be.

-/-

The sharp sensation of pain hits her as she's painting a project for Mrs. Frost in the little space she's turned into her studio years prior, winning the battle with her brother who wanted that place above the garage to be his new room. Sometimes, being the older sibling has its advantages. And puppy eyes, those work like a charm, too.

The pain seems to never stop, it leaves her breathless and makes her lose her balance. She falls off the stool she was perched upon mere seconds ago, stretching on the cold floor as she tries to breathe fresh air in.

Eventually, the agonizing pain fades, leaving a faint ache behind, just like when you cut your finger so lightly that just a thin red line forms but the steady pulsing of the blood beneath hurts still.

The moment she can breathe and feel her legs again, Emma sits up. The room still spins when she stands, but it doesn't deter her from rushing downstairs to grab her bag and red leather jacket before rushing outside.

She really hopes her yellow bug doesn't let her down amidst New York's traffic. Taking the subway is out of the question: she can't perfectly follow the thread when she can't turn left or right whenever the red string does.

Her heart was thundering in her chest, tattooing its shape against her sternum. All she can think of is Jones. Never before she felt such pain, and she knows, she just _does_ that he's not well, that something happened to him. She just hopes she doesn't have to fly all the way to London or wherever to make sure he will be well.

The strings takes her way out of town: it takes her to Boston.

What's worse, it takes her to Mass General Hospital.

Her mind already thought she would end up in a hospital, all she needs to know now is how bad it is. The red thread is the only hope she has left: until it disappears, Jones is still alive. A tearful laugh escapes her lips at the thought that she's literally hanging by a thread.

Being able to follow the thread means not having to face nurses and doctors asking her thorny questions, but relatives, well, those Emma has to face.

There are only two people sitting in front of the OR, one a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly light brown hair, rubbing his hand over a grief-stricken face, the other a blonde woman who keeps an arm around the man's shoulders, clearly trying to comfort him and to get a bit of comfort in return.

The man notices Emma first, a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he stands, but Emma keeps following the thread with her eyes. She can't help the tears from falling until her vision blurs, the thread disappearing behind the OR's doors.

«Lass? Who are you?»

The voice holds a British accent, that she can hear, but Emma doesn't _understand_ the words the man just spoke. Jones, _her_ Jones is behind those doors, and she can't do a thing to help him. She's helpless.

_But not hopeless_.

The man shakes her, perhaps a bit too roughly, which has the other blonde take action, dragging away the man from her. She whispers something to him, something that makes him blanch, something Emma doesn't hear; all she can hear are the sobs wrenching from her her throat.

Suddenly, she finds herself sitting down on one of those plastic chairs, the man still looking at her with incredulity. When she meets his eyes, Emma almost loses herself in them: they are so blue, so bottomless, and she would just want to drown into them weren't they the _wrong_ eyes.

«Jones.» The name falls from her lips repeatedly, like a prayer; when she looks down, her fingers are still holding the thread, twisting it, raveling and unraveling red knots.

After a while, a paper cup appears under her eyes, abruptly taking her out of her reverie. Another set of blue eyes, gentle ones, is staring down at her. «Here, drink this.»

Emma takes a sip, and it takes her everything not to spit out the tea she's gulped down like she would coffee. It's a good strategy, though she'd gladly want to strangle the stranger apologetically smiling at her.

When she deems Emma ready to have a proper talk, the woman introduces herself. «My name is Elsa,» she tells her slowly, wanting her to understand who she is. «What's your name?»

If Emma wasn't so shocked, she would probably be mad at how she's being treated, as if she's a child. It takes her a few minutes to actually breathe out her name. «Emma.»

Elsa nods. «Emma. It's a lovely name. Do you know Killian?»

_Killian? Who's- _Jones.

«I-I… did. I hope I still do.»

Her words confuse the couple - they clearly are a couple, soulmates, even; it's amazing how clear the bonds are even when you can't see the thread connecting them - but this time it's the man who speaks.

«Who are you _exactly_? How do you know my brother?»

Emma stares at him, mouth agape, and flushes. She's slowly getting back to herself, realizing her words sound suspicious. But what can she reveal without betraying Jones - _Killian_'s - privacy? «We… met through tumblr years ago.» _We fell in love. We chose one another. We are connected._

It's then that the man's eyes widen. «You are Swan.»

Impossibly, Emma's heart starts beating faster at that name. She wonders how it will sound when falling from Killian's lips. Because she will hear it. She has to.

She nods slowly. «I lost contact with him around Christmas about seven years ago, and had no means to find him.» _None but the thread_.

The man closes his eyes. «The Christmas Mum died.»

It's barely a whisper, but she can hear him. Elsa looks away, clearly knowing what he's talking about.

It's as clear as the sun that he doesn't want to talk about it, not now, not ever, but it's probably the only thing that will keep him sane until he knows how his brother's faring. Pain has strange side effects on people, always inexplicable. «I was already in the Navy, Killian was a few months shy of eighteen and would end up in the system. Given the delicate matter, my superior assigned me to desk duty. That way, I could act as a suitable guardian for Killian until he turned eighteen. He enlisted the day after his birthday.» There was affection in the man's voice, his gaze lost in front of him as he reminisced about the past.

_That's why he never wrote back_, Emma realizes sadly. _But had he really thought I couldn't understand and offer him comfort in a situation like that?_

«He told me it was his intention to contact you again.» Emma's head snaps up at those words, eyes wide. Her heart seems to stop in her chest. Which is ridiculous, she knows. At least she's in a hospital, though. The man sighs, his head dropping. «Alas, our problems didn't stop there. Our father found us and tried to get custody of Killian. Fortunately, abandoning the three of us when me and Killian were just lads didn't make him any favour in front of the judge. The legal battle was draining, especially when we came to know we had a half brother Brennan decided to call Liam, just like me.»

In that moment, Emma is thankful Elsa brought her a tea instead of a coffee. The two clearly went through hell, and she did nothing for them. Would Killian resent her for not following the thread when he disappeared, when he clearly needed her to be by his side?

Finally, she looks the man - _Liam_ \- in the eyes, and asks the question she dreads the most. «What happened today?»

Liam runs a hand on his face and through his hair. «Some bloody idiot at the base screwed up with the security measures and there was an explosion. Several metal shards hit Killian, too, but the explosion made the structure they were in collapse and buried alive all the people inside, crushing them. When we finally managed to reach them, for some was too late, but not for him. Killian's left hand was severely injured, but still alive. My little brother truly is a fighter.» There's pride in Liam's voice, and the same sensation make Emma's heart swell as well. Liam chuckles, a watery, pained smile curling his lips. «He never told me his thread appeared, and the first time I heart about you was when I overheard him talking about you with Mum. After she passed, he talked to me about you, but never about the thread, so I kept it to myself, wanting him to tell me in his own time. When we were in the ambulance, Killian kept repeating he couldn't lose his hand, that he couldn't lose his thread, the only link he had to you.»

Emma can't really see Liam anymore, his words bringing fresh tears to her eyes. Instead of thinking about himself, Killian was praying he wouldn't lose his hand, believing it would make it impossible to find her.

She's still crying when the doctor comes out, blood staining his indigo scrubs, and tells them Killian's experienced a meaningful blood loss they managed to contain and is now out of the woods. It's Liam who asks about the hand, but it's Emma who almost collapses when the surgeon tells them it will take rehabilitation and patience, but they saved it. Fortunately for her, Elsa is ready to catch both Emma and Liam, squeezing them in her arms.

Emma Nolan sees her soulmate for the first time as he's being wheeled in an empty hospital room, the thread much shorter now, unbelievably so, and when it starts to become longer once again, she hurries to keep it as short as possible, never daring taking her eyes off of him.

-/-

Elsa has dragged Liam home for a shower and a change of clothes - and by dragged, she literally _did _just that - leaving Emma truly alone with Killian for the first time.

That gives her time to take a better look at him, to imprint his features in her mind. Her fingers itch to draw him, but her supplies are all at home and she should also call her parents. Later, probably.

She would draw soft and sharp lines for his face, grinning at how his nose seems a bit too big and sighing as the pencil traces the curve of his full lips. Midnight black would be the base for his hair, with shades of chocolate brown to recreate the exact colour she sees. A pale pink for the skin, though she can just see the apples of his cheeks a bright strawberry pink. She can't help but wonder which other parts of his body flushes red when he's embarrassed. His eyes, she's yet to see, but she knows they'll be as blue as Liam's, not identical but quite, unique in their own way.

If only he woke up.

She doesn't speak, doesn't talk to him, humming _Fireflies_ softly. Killian wanted to keep his hand because he was afraid of losing the thread, but Emma knows he'd be almost as desperate if he lost his ability to play the guitar.

Careful not to touch anything that might endanger Killian's health, Emma gently traces lines over the bandages covering his left hand, the thread tangled around each one of her finger. Whenever her eyes land on the bow tightly tied around his ring finger, her heart skips a beat.

Sometimes, she finds herself tugging slightly at the thread in hopes it will wake him up. It never does, but perhaps it helps.

It's very late in the evening when Liam comes back with cheeseburgers and sodas, not quite glaring at her when he catches sight of her phone screen and sees her parents missed calls. There are twenty-eight of them, twenty-ninth incoming.

Facing her parents is quite easy now that she's eaten and is not as frightened as she was this morning. When she tells them a friend has been in an accident and she drove to Boston Emma is not lying: after all, she and Killian were friends before being soulmates - or, well, before discovering they have been soulmates all along.

They are worried, but understanding, which shouldn't surprise Emma but it does.

What surprises her even more as she makes her way to Killian's room, is the slight, almost imperceptible tug she feels.

Instinctively, she looks down; more precisely, she looks at her left hand. The threads moves again, barely, but she feels the tug nonetheless.

Her head snaps up, green eyes meeting impossibly blue ones through the window.

There's a crooked smile on Killian's face, one that makes her knees go weak in both relief and amazement. His eyes are that combination of blues that form a new shade entirely. She'll have her fun studying it very closely.

Knowing she can't rush inside - Liam deserves to make sure his little brother is fine, and the doctors do, too - Emma smiles back at him, tugging lightly at the thread in response.

She's almost asleep on her feet when she feels the tug again. Suffice to say, she reaches Killian's room in rapid strides, almost running into Liam. He laughs, winking at her as he leaves the room.

_Oh god, it's happening_.

«Swan.»

_Fuck, his voice is so… _British.

If her knees were about to give out from under her with a look, now she really needs to hold on to something.

«Jones,» she breathes, instinctively going to his left side, fingertips of her hands grazing his. They twitch slightly, clear sign that there's still responsiveness. Emma can't help the sigh of relief she lets out.

«Fancy seeing you here,» he tries to joke, probably still high on morphine.

She shrugs, unable of not smiling back. «I was around.»

They both erupt in a laugh at the same time, Killian's right hand going to his torso. Emma's eyes widen in alarm and the laughter dies on her lips.

«Do you need me to call someone?»

Killian shakes his head, his left index finger locking around hers, stopping her apprehension. «No, love, I just have to remember not to laugh too much. Doctor said I can't really do much anyway, but I'll get better.» He turns serious, looking at her in search of a truthful answer. «How are you here?»

«I… felt pain, in my chest. It was agonizing, and I just _knew_ something happened to you.» She looks down to their intertwined fingers, the thread locked between them. «I finally followed it, and it led me to you.»

Killian's eyes are looking at their hands, too. Somehow, he manages to find the strength to thread all his fingers through Emma's. «About bloody time.»

Another laugh bubbles from her deep inside her stomach. «We never did things the usual way.»

The way his eyebrow arches, almost comically, on his forehead, steals her breath away. «Since when do you care about doing things the usual way?»

Oh, he's mocking her, the bastard.

She bends over him, blonde hair falling on the side and pooling like a liquid gold waterfall over his chest, just above his now not so steadily beating heart. It reveals a smudge of aquamarine paint low on her neck. «You are lucky you are my soulmate.» Pronouncing that word makes her feel as light as a feather.

«Am I?» he chuckles, looking up at her with laughing eyes.

Her smile widens, which makes her nose wrinkle in delight. «Ah, well, if I ever had to pick a soulmate, I'd pick you.»

His right hand finds her face, brushing her cheeks before he buries it in her hair, pulling her slightly closer. «Good thing I'd choose you, too.»

Emma is still smiling when she reaches down to kiss him.

Between them, the red thread of fate glows.

Emma Nolan and Killian Jones are both too lost in one another to notice.

-/-

«Hmm, how strange.»

«What is?»

«_This_.»

A pale hand holds up the glowing red thread.

«How so?»

«It was supposed never to exist.»

«Are you sure?»

The Moira huffs. «Of course I am, sister.»

«Wait a second,» a third voice says, «we've seen a thread just like this one.» The two sisters cock their heads. Another huff echoes against the walls. «Have you forgotten about the Choice?»

«Impossible!»

«But that hasn't happened in _millennia_!»

Lachesis rolls her eyes. «That's because it wasn't supposed to ever happen. We tie souls together, and are careful to always do so. Just like Mortals, alas, we aren't strangers to mistakes, but whenever we find an anomaly, a soul that should be tied to another but isn't, we correct that mistake, hoping it's not too late. The Choice, however, we have no power upon, because we are expected to string the threads and connect the mates. _I_ am the one in charge of every human being's Destiny, but when I first threaded Hades and Persephone's threads, they weren't fated to be together. They _chose_ to be tied.»

Atropos clicks her tongue. «The Choice is the most sacred link, yet Mortals have been treating it like the worst of sins.»

«We have no influence on what Mortals think, dear sister,» Clotho says, patting Atropos' arm, «and look at them, King and Queen of the Underworld don't care at all.» A smile curls her lips. «I believe neither Emma Nolan and Killian Jones will.»

«They stopped caring when they first started talking together,» Lachesis breathes in surprise, the still glowing thread showing her the younglings' lives. «What's even more shocking is that none of us ever put one on the other's path.»

Clotho snorts. «That surprise you? Don't you remember the tantrum Demeter threw when she discovered the link between her daughter and Hades had formed? No one ever expected the King of the Underworld to have a soulmate when he was believed not to have a soul at all, not even us.»

Lachesis sighs, still in awe. «Well, I gather we will just have to wait a few more millennia before witnessing another Choice.»

«In the meantime,» Atropos cuts in, golden Shears glinting in her hand, «we'll need to make sure to give these two a happy and long life.»

«Don't worry, sister,» Lachesis assures her, pressing the red thread to her chest, «I'll make sure you won't see this thread again for many, many years.»


End file.
